


We Don't Need a Reason (if We Want to Lose Our Minds)

by theclockiscomplete



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Human Furniture, Kinda, Kink, Light Dom/sub, Predicament Play, Wax Play, because always, best enemies, but maybe one day I will add more, no i will not explain, sub!twelve, twissy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 10:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20226346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclockiscomplete/pseuds/theclockiscomplete
Summary: What if Twelve, but a chair. Kinkily. No shape-shifting, just practicing doing what he's told for once and mucking it up on accident. Probably.





	We Don't Need a Reason (if We Want to Lose Our Minds)

**Author's Note:**

> Another from the WIP folder. Kind of fun to not worry about expanding/finishing things and just posting them pretty much as is.

His arms have been sore for hours now, but he doesn’t dare move. The television is still chattering on and on-- it had bothered him at first, but the frustration has long been eschewed by his inability to think of anything but holding perfectly still, stripped to the waist and barefoot and somehow feeling more exposed than if she had taken it all off of him. They did this for fun as kids, he remembers desperately, tried to see who could sit still the longest—usually in the middle of what was supposed to be meditation. He was always rubbish at that, even without the threat of severe bodily injury. He breathes in, releases the hysterical feeling with the exhale.

Below him, positioned meticulously between his wrists, the candle burns.

Above him, perched comfortably on his back, sits Missy. She’s been there long enough that the pain has dulled his ability to keep time, and the part of him that is not wholly dedicated to keeping his arms locked and his breathing even is busy filing the sensation of being untethered from himself away for later recollection. He probably shouldn’t bother. It’s doubtful that he’ll forget any of this for a long, long time. His cheek still throbs faintly where she’d knocked him to the ground.

She shifts. He doesn’t move, but his breath comes in and stays. He feels an anticipatory tremor deep in the muscles of his arms, whispering a threat of collapse.  _ Please _ , he thinks, and he doesn’t bother concealing the thought. Who knows if she’s even listening anyway.

A minute passes. Two. Five. 

He’s dropping back into a hazy headspace when Missy stands up and stretches like a giant cat.

All of his exhaustion takes a backseat to the thrill of fear and anticipation that thrums through him like a plucked string.

“I think I’m bored,” Missy says conversationally.

He knows that means something is coming, but the thought is a half second behind the impact of her knee against his ribs. He goes sprawling, arms screaming in pain and relief. The respite is short lived; he hears her tutting disapprovingly and feels the dread coil inside him like cold iron, paralyzing him. He’d been meant to hold the position, and he had failed. All bets are off.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, turning his head blindly in the direction he thinks she might be standing. “I can do it—” He cuts off with a cry as her hand twists suddenly into his hair and she hauls him to his knees. Her free hand hooks the blindfold with one deceptively gentle finger and pulls it up. The smile suddenly taking up his watery vision almost looks like pity. For a moment, she simply watches him gasp and twitch feebly in her grip.

“My, my,” she says sweetly. “It looks like you’re not as good at following orders as I’ve been told.” The blindfold covers his eyes again and she steps in, pushing his upper body backwards until his palms hit the carpeted floor automatically to support his weight. He can smell her. "Maybe you'll get this one right, pet: not a sound." He tries to nod in her grip and nearly comes undone in the next instant as searing hot wax splatters his chest and stomach. 

He grits his teeth and inhales so sharply that he fears she'll punish him, chest arched desperately and every muscle rigid. She's paused; he can feel her watching him through the blindfold, feels that satisfied sort of fascination she gets when he's like this. He's not exactly sure what she's getting from him right now. He is cooling, cracking wax and pulled hair and -- this time it's the whole gob that splashes at his stomach, kept hot by its own mass and burning him more the longer it sits, dripping inside the waistband of his pants to scorch his hipbones.  


He's not aware of having made a sound until the burning eases and he stops whimpering. There is a terrible silence, broken only by his quiet heaves of breath. He's bracing himself to apologize again when Missy shoves him to the floor, knocking the breath out of him with another offending squeak. Her movements are brisk, and he feels all of his nerves coalesce into a spiral in the pit of his stomach at the faint clink of restraints. She slams the backs of his hands up against the bars at the footboard of the bed and shackles him to them, her displeasure at him echoing in every movement. If he's not careful, he'll break the bed. She won't like that.

He'll be more careful this time. He really will.


End file.
